Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they, while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night.

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Music is the language spoken by angels.

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Hope has as many lives as a cat or a king.

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A young critic is like a boy with a gun; he fires at every living thing he sees. He thinks only of his own skill, not of the pain he is giving.

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Death is better than disease.

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Into each life some rain must fall.

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Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.

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In the long run men hit only what they aim at.

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A town that boasts inhabitants like me Can have no lack of good society.

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Evil is only good perverted.

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.... Anon from the castle walls The crescent banner falls, And the crowd beholds instead, Like a portent in the sky, Iskander's banner fly, The Black Eagle with double head. And shouts ascend on high .....'' Long live Scanderbeg.

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Death is the chillness that precedes the dawn; We shudder for a moment, then awake In the broad sunshine of the other life.

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The market-place, the eager love of gain, Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain!

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Ah, how skillful grows the hand That obeyeth Love's command! It is the heart, and not the brain, That to the highest doth attain, And he who followeth Love's behest Far excelleth all the rest!

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Oh, what a glory doth this world put on, for him who with a fervent heart goes forth under the bright and glorious sky, and looks on duties well performed, and days well spent.

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Even cities have their graves!

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O lovely eyes of azure, Clear as the waters of a brook that run Limpid and laughing in the summer sun!

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Then from the neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen.

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Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.Under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard,In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed;Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

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It is true, that it is not at all necessary to love many books, in order to love them much.

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